


Scott Tracy: Hold Fast

by ThreadbareT



Category: Thunderbirds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:26:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreadbareT/pseuds/ThreadbareT
Summary: Thunderbird One is responding to a yacht in distress.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Scott Tracy: Hold Fast

The controls buck and shudder in my hands, as I descend into the storm. The wind and rain howl around me, doing their best to slam Thunderbird One into the slate grey waves. I manage to keep her level, and in the air, but the engines whine in complaint.  
My spotlights fall over the yacht. It is listing at the mercy of the waves. The mast is broken, and trailing behind it, tangled in the ragged remains of the sail. There were two figures aboard, Sildan Derrinda, the industrialist, all sinew and steely eyes, cradling the frail, willowy form of his niece, Ellie, in his arms. She had taken a bad fall, and her leg was in a bad way.  
Sildan looks up at me. His harness is tethered to the railing. The hull looks good. The ship is solid now, but in about seventeen seconds a wave is going roll over it. It will be underwater. Then it will be matchwood.  
Okay, time for some fast thinking. Unconventional. I have one idea, and it isn’t a good one, but… I don’t have the luxury of time. Dad always says our family creed is “Never Give Up, No Matter What The Cost,” but every exercise book I had at school was emblazoned with the same tag: Fly Fast, Hold Fast. Yeah, I knew I wanted to be in the air force long before I was old enough, and I knew I wanted to fly Strato-Jets.  
I thumb the toggle on my control sticks, set One to autopilot, and target the yacht with my grapples.  
That all takes a second.  
I fire, and they lodge firm.  
A few more seconds gone.  
I thumb back to flight controls, and set the engines to pull up, as fast as I can without ripping the yacht apart.  
Seconds crawl by. The wave looms down.  
The yacht is free of the sea and we are going up, up, over the waves.  
I set us to hover.  
The yacht sways unsteadily on the hoists. I reel it in, steady it, as best I can.  
The hoists can hold the yacht until doomsday, but it won’t be stable to fly with, and… I don’t have the fuel left to wait out the storm. From how pale Ellie is looking, I don’t think she can wait it out either.  
I unclasp and climb out of my seat. I make my way over to the bay. I grab a trauma kit, strap myself to a cable, and leap out into the storm.  
I crash through the banshee howl of wind and land on the deck of the yacht. It sways and tilts beneath me.   
Sildan stares at me, scared, cold, full of worries. “You have to get us out of here!”  
“I will,” I promise.  
The wind sways the yacht. Again.  
“Now?” Sildan demands.  
I lift Ellie away from him.  
Her leg is broken in more than one place, with a nasty gash. I spray it to stem the bleeding, and fix it with a pressure-splint. She stirs, but her eyes don’t focus on me. I’ll be happier when she is on a stretcher, but for now… I wrap a tether about her waist, and clip her to my harness.  
Sildan accepts another tether, and numbly wraps it about his waist.  
The cables strain, as the yacht swings away from One and she compensates to keep us in the air. It’s becoming too dangerous. I’m running out of time.  
I hold the other two close to me, and thumb a control. The cables release the yacht, and the ship crashes down into the ocean, swallowed whole by the ocean.  
We whine up towards the open hold of Thunderbird One. We reach the safety hold, and the hatch closes beneath us.  
Sildan stands rigid. His jaw sets. His eyes boil with emotions I can’t even begin to guess at.  
“Do you,” he says cold as ice (apparently anger is one of those emotions), “have any idea how much that cost?”  
“It was the ship or her,” I say, laying Ellie onto a stretcher and strapping her down. “Want to argue my choice?”  
Sildan doesn’t want to argue, but he isn’t the kind of person likes to be wrong, either. He points at her, and sets his jaw. “She needs something for the pain, and…”  
Dammit. Virgil would know what to say. He would find the right words to let this all simmer down. I don’t do speeches. I tend to get bored with speeches, and rush off to do something else at the first opportunity, to avoid them.  
“She needs,” I say, warningly, “for you to step back and give me room to help her.” I find a shot for the pain, and give her leg a proper scan. “She should be okay until we get to a hospital.”  
Sildan nods, his expression softening, and tears streak down his cheek. “You are sure?”  
I don’t have an answer. I fold a seat out of the bulkhead and ease him towards it. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Try to keep her comfortable, as best as you can. Please?”  
Sildan nods. Something is steeling under the surface of his expression, and the fog of shock dissipates a little. He sits over Ellie, and grabs her hand.  
I fight my way up to the cockpit, and into my chair. The controls tremble in my grip, as I set us moving, and circle up above the storm, above the clouds, and unleash the engines. One purrs as she thunders away, in the direction of New York.  
A few hours later I’m parked on the helicopter pad of a hospital in New York, cradling a coffee between my fingers. It’s been an hour since the medics whisked Ellie away.  
Sildan steps out into the rain, and follows my gaze. The worst of the storm is an ink stain on the horizon, with flashes of lightning. “Sir…”  
I straighten up, square my shoulders, and try to look like I belong in the uniform. “Yes?”  
He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t say thank you. He isn’t a one for too many words either. He bows his head, and offers me a hand, his lips curling to a smile.  
His handshake is an action I understand. It says more than words could have.


End file.
